Irish Come-all-ye's: A Repository of Ancient Irish Songs and Ballads ...

POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE.-Continued.

MOLLY CAREW.

With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer OCH hone! and what will I do?
stay,

For the shamrock is immediately bound for America;
For there is bread and work, which I cannot get in Donegal,

I told the truth, by great Saint Ruth, believe me what I say. Good night, my boys, with heart and hand, all you who take Ireland's part,

I can no longer stay at home, for hear of being too late;
If ever again I see this land, I hope it will be with a Fenian band,
So God be with old Ireland; poor Pat must emigrate.

GOUGAUNE BARRA.

THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;

In deep-valleyed Desmond-a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills-oh, to see them bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans.from the hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming,
Oh, where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depths of thy heather,
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water!

High sons of the lyre, oh, how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains;

And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.

Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still still in those wilds might young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley;
The star of the west might yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest be brightest in story.

I, too, shall be gone-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping forever.

Sure my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost,

And there's no use at all in my going to bed;
For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my

head:

And 'tis all about you,

My sweet Molly Carew

And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame:
You're complater than Nature
In every feature,

The snow can't compare
With your forehead so fair,

And I rather would see just one blink of your

MOLLY CAREW.-Contiinued.
Och hone! don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score
That love me-and more;

And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet

My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreet;

Throth, you'd open your eyes,
And you'd die with surprise,

To think 'twasn't you was come to it! And, faith, Katty Naile, And her cow, I go bail, Would jump if I'd say "Katty Naile, name the day." And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May,

While she's short and dark like a cowld winther's day,

Yet if you don't repent
Before Easther, when Lent
Is over I'll marry for spite;
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.

BROSNA'S BANKS.

YES, yes, I idled many an hour(0, would that I could idle now,

In wooing back the wither'd flower

Of health into my wasted brow!)
But from my life's o'ershadowing close,
My unimpassioned spirit ranks
Among its happiest moments those
I idled on the Brosna's Banks.
For there upon my boyhood broke
The dreamy voice of nature first;
And every word the vision spoke,

How deeply has my spirit nursed!
A woman's love, a lyre, or pen,

A rescued land, a nation's thanks,
A friendship with the world, and then
A grave upon the Brosna's Banks.

For these I sued, and sought, and strove,
But now my youthful days are gone,
In vain, in vain-for woman's love
Is still a blessing to be won;
And still my country's cheek is wet,
The still unbroken fetter clanks,
And I may not forsake her yet

To die upon the Brosna's Banks.

Yet idle as those visions seem,

They were a strange and faithful guide,
When Heaven itself had scarce a gleam
To light my darken'd life beside;
And if from grosser guilt escaped

I fel no dying dread, the thanks
Are due unto the power that shaped
My visions on the Brosna's Banks.
And love, I feel, will come at last,

Albeit too late to comfort me;
And fetters from the land be cast,
Though I may not survive to see.
If then the gifted, good, and brave

Admit me to their glorious ranks,
My memory may, tho' not my grave,
Be green upon the Brosna's Banks.

THE SIEGE OF MAYNOOTH.

Crom, Crom-aboo! The Geraldine rebels from proud Maynooth, And with him are leagued four hundred, the flower of Leinster's youth.

Take heart once more, oh, Erin! The great God gives thee hope;

And thro' the mist of Time and Woe thy true Life's portals ope!

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"The Earl heaped favors on thee?"-"Never King heaped more on Lord!"

"He loved thee? honored thee?"-"I was his heart, his arm, his sword! "

"He trusted thee?"-" Even as he trusted his own lofty soul!" "AND THOU BETRAYEST HIM? Base wretch! thou knowest the traitor's goal!

"Ho! Provost-Marshal, hither! Take this losel caitiff hence-I mark, methinks, a scaffold under yonder stone defense. Off with his head! By Heaven, the blood within me boils and seethes,

To look on him! So vile a knave pollutes the air he breathes!

"Twas but four days thereafter, of a stormy evening late, When a horseman reared his charger in before the castle gate, And gazing upwards, he descried by the light of the pale moon shed,

Impaled upon an iron stake, a well-known gory head!

EMMET'S FAREWELL TO HIS SWEETHEART.
FAREWELL, love, farewell, love, I now must leave you,
The pale moon is shining her last beam on me;
In truth, I do declare I never deceived you,
For it's next to my heart is dear Erin and thee.

Draw near to my bosom, my first and fond true love,
And cherish the heart that beats only for thee;
And let my cold grave with green laurels be strewn, love,
And cherish the heart that beats only for thee;

Oh, never again in the moonlight we'll roam, love,
When the birds are at rest and the stars they do shine;
Oh, never again shall I kiss thy sweet lips, love,
Or wander by streamlets with thy hands pressed in mine.

Oh, should a mother's love make all others forsake me,
Oh, give me a promise before that I die,

That you'll come to my grave when all others forsake me, And there with the soft winds breath sigh then for sigh.

My hour is approaching, let me take one fond look, love, And watch thy pure beauty till my soul does depart; Let thy ringlets fall on my face and brow, love,

Draw near till I press thee to my fond and true heart. Farewell, love, farewell, love, the words are now spoken, The pale moon is shining her last beams on me: Farewell, love, farewell, love, I hear the death token, Never more in this world your Emmet you'll see.

THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN.
THE shades of eve had crossed the glen
That frowns o'er infant Avonmore;
When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,
We stopped before a cottage door.
"God save all here," my comrade cries,
And rattles on the raised latch-pin;
"God save you kindly," quick replies
A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter; from the wheel she starts,
A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering court'sy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone,

For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel,
Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us in a beechen bowl,

Sweet milk, that smacked of mountain thyme,

Oat cake, and such a yellow roll

Of butter-it gilds all my rhyme! And while we ate the grateful food, (With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind. Kind wishes both our souls engaged From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual stood thought-we

pledged,

and

THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN. "The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary-bless those budding charms! Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms!" She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have nought to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger men. Not for a crown would I alarm

Your virgin pride by word or sign; Nor need a painful blush disarm

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel

The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,

'Tis all in vain-she can't but smile! Just like sweet April's dawn appears

Her modest face-I see it yet-
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure, that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,

The white teeth struggling into sight;
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,-

The rosy cheek that won't be still!O! who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill? For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again!

110

SHULE AROON.

'Twas odor fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's winged dream!

'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream!

Oh! 'twas light, that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream!

THE DEAR EMERALD ISLE.

KIND friends, will ye help a poor, weary stranger,
Who's foot-sore and weary and hungry the while?
I've nothing to give, but an orphan will bless you
If you'll help a poor boy from the dear em'rald isle.
But a year ago, sure, I was smiling and happy;
Not a care on my mind, and a heart free from guile,
In a dear little cabin at the foot of the mountain,

That rears its proud head o'er the dear em'rald isle.

My father and mother, God bless their dear mem'ry,
Were contented and happy, although they were poor;
The land it was bad, and they worked late and early
To pay up the rent, with the wolf at the door.
At length my poor father took ill of a fever,

From toiling so hard on the bleak, barren soil;
Although my poor mother was careful and tender,
He died, and now lies 'neath the dear em'rald isle.

Then the sheriff he came with a band of armed ruffians
To turn out a child and a mother so gray;
And deaf to all pleading they tore down our cabin-
Like a flower she drooped and faded away;

Then hunger and sorrow soon told on my mother;
Like a flower she dropped and faded away;

And with a last blessing, while her poor child caressing,
She gave up her life and was laid 'neath the clay.

Then they laid my dear mother beside my poor father-
I planted a shamrock just over their grave;
While I, a poor orphan, driven forth by misfortune,
To leave that dear land, and to cross the wild wave;
But, wherever I wander, I ever shall ponder

And dream of the time when nature did smile
On my father and mother and dear loving brother
And the old cabin home in the dear em'rald isle.

Off she wint! off she wint! be gob, I was not worth a cint; The sate was just as hard as flint, behind McCarthy's mare.

'Hould her in!" McCarthy cried, "Stop her!"

says McCue,

I tho't I'd shake to pieces, as along the road we flew;
Me head was swimming like a top, my heart was in despair,
The divil himself was in the wheels behind McCarthy's mare.

McCarthy held the reins, and Murphy held McCarthy,
But whiskey filled their brains and made them wild and hearty
Maloney tumbled out behind, and there we let him lay-
Sure I offered to assist him-but the mare she ran away!

Me dacent coat was tore, me hat was left behind me,

I rattled and I swore, and I thought the dust would blind me In holes and ditches wint the wheels, oh, murther, what a day Sure, myself was kilt entirely, with the mare that run away.

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